“The river’s always rising, sir. Sometimes it fioods; sometimes it don’t. Not much we can do about it either way.”
I found this to be the general attitude. Several people pointed out to me that it hadn’t rained recently. Mountain snow meant nothing to them.
“I hope they’ve got the horses out of the City,” Hermes said, pointing to the huge establishments of the racing factions situated near the Circus. Like most Romans, he didn’t care if the rest of the City washed away or burned down as long as it didn’t interfere with the races. A few hundred drowned citizens was a prospect he could face with equanimity. A loss of several hundred fine chariot horses was a tragedy beyond imagining.
“They’re all out in the pastures this time of year,” I assured him. “The season doesn’t start until the Megalensian Games next month.” As if I needed to remind him when the racing season started. I didn’t need to be reminded either since I would be in charge of a major portion of this year’s Games. There were days when I thought of little else.
“That’s a relief,” he said. “What now?”
I contemplated the geography of the City. My own house, while not far up the slopes like the more fashionable mansions, lay high enough to have escaped the last couple of fioods. “Are any of the baths on high ground?” I mused.
“None I can think of,” Hermes answered.
“Then I’d better get a bath now. They may be out of commission tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I’ll run and get your bath things.”
“First go up there,” I pointed up the slope of the Aventine to the Temple of Ceres no more than a hundred paces away. “Find a messenger, tell him to get a horse and whatever else he needs for a dash to Ostia, and report to me at my usual bathhouse. Then to my house. Tell Julia I’ll be late again, and find out if the documents from the Tabularium have been delivered. Bring back a skin of decent Falernian, and don’t drink any on the way. I’ll know if you’ve diluted it.” He looked offended and trotted off. Julia’s dowry had provided me with a better quality of wine than I had been used to maintaining. Keeping the boy’s hands off it was a full-time job.
I made my way slowly to my favorite balneum, located near the Temple of Saturn. Really large bathhouses were just beginning to be seen in Rome, but this was an older establishment and rather modest. It was handy to the Forum and was frequented by many senators. It charged a bit more than others of the same quality, making it more exclusive. Besides providing a decent bath, it was a good place to pick up political gossip.
I did a bit of meeting and greeting in the Forum; and by the time I got to the balneum, Hermes was there with the skin, towels, scented oil, and my scraper.
“Julia was concerned,” he reported, as he relieved me of toga, tunic, and sandals. “She had heard about the riot in the Forum and was worried that you might have been involved. I assured her that we watched the whole thing from the Tabularium, and she was relieved.”
“Did she know about the coming fiood?”
“Hadn’t heard a word of it. Cassandra told her that fiood water has never reached the place as long as she’s been a slave there.”
“Why is it,” I said, bracing myself for the torture of the cold pool, “that everyone in Rome finds out about the most foolish rumors instantly while staying blissfully oblivious of momentous news?”
“Must be a trick the gods played on us,” he said. “Like when they gave what’s-her-name the gift of prophecy but made it so that nobody would ever believe her.”
“Cassandra,” I informed him, “daughter of Priam. Yes, that may be it. Gods do things like that sometimes. They have a sense of humor, you know.”
I decided that since this might be my last chance for some time, to go for the full treatment. So I went out into the exercise yard, and while Hermes helped me oil up I sought out a suitable training partner. A number of the younger senators were wrestling, some of them with considerable brutality, in the sand pit. Older ones contented themselves with rolling in the sand to get a good coating. The smell of overheated bodies coated with cheap olive oil was pungent, but after those sewers I scarcely noticed.
“Decius Caecilius!” shouted a loud voice. I turned and saw a handsome, ox-muscled young man swaggering his way toward me. “I’ll try a few falls with you.” It was Marcus Antonius. He had recently returned from a stint with the army of Aulus Gabinius in Syria and Egypt, where Antonius had won great distinction as a soldier. He had come back to Rome to stand for quaestor that year, not bothering to campaign for the office because Caesar wanted him for his staff in Gaul and the Centuriate Assembly would simply name him and send him off without a ballot. Things always came easy to young Antonius.